


felix felicis

by hyperphonic



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, everyone is alive and happy and nO ONE DIES IT'S GREAT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperphonic/pseuds/hyperphonic
Summary: “Are you ready to lose the first match of the season?” Rey crosses one long (long long long) leg over the other and the smile on her pretty face shifts into a cocky smirk that reminds Ben entirely too much of his father.“Fat chance.” He finally grumbles, and the laugh it prompts from Rey is enough to pull a smile to his face.





	felix felicis

**Author's Note:**

> **for the prompt:** Pureblood! Kylo tries to take over the school with his emo gang but falls unexpectedly in love with Muggle! Rey. (Rey is either a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor and Kylo is Slytherin or Ravenclaw)
> 
>  **well you see:** this got,,,,, so wildly out of hand. i don't know what happened. 
> 
> **disclaimer:** all i own is one SICKASS casual sex friday mug.

Ben Solo, Slytherin Head Boy, captain of the Quidditch team, and heir to one of the most prestigious Pureblooded houses in wizarding history enters his seventh year of school with two concrete goals:

  1.     To finally, _finally_ win the Quidditch Cup back from Gryffindor (and no, _not_ just to stick it to the bright eyed little Seeker they’d elected captain his fourth year).
  2.     To lead Slytherin back into glory with a decisive win of the House Cup.



The first of September dawns bright and cold in the way only early autumn mornings can be, watery sunlight bathing Kings in gold to the point of gleaming against the uncharacteristically clear sky as their cab pulls up in front of its sweeping arches. Leia and Han, as far as members of the Wizarding community go, pass rather impressively as muggles. His mother looks right at home among the bustle of Muggle traffic, as she exits the little car, expensive handbag on one arm and sharp lines of her suit pressed to perfection (a stark contrast to the lazy leather jacket and jeans his father sports).

“Be sure to write every day, dear.” Leia hums as Han tips their driver, grimy fingers expertly parsing out Muggle currency. “And do remember that you’re set to have dinner with Luke on Friday.” Ben nods and fights the urge to roll his eyes as he readjusts the strap of his broom case on one shoulder and goes to retrieve the rest of his luggage from the trunk.

“I will, mom.” Two trunks, one duffle bag with the rest of his Quidditch gear, a small muggle kennel for his cat (a sleek black thing he’d found in the dumpster outside their apartment when he was ten, affectionately named Kylo). The Minister for Magic sniffs appreciatively and readjusts one immaculately styled bun before linking her arm through her Husband’s and leading their little party beneath the station’s sweeping arches.

Platform Nine and Three Quarters is exactly as crowded as Ben remembers it, packed to the gills with nervous first years and parents of all ages herding their charges to and fro with varying degrees of success. Like a well-oiled machine, the Organa-Solos pack Ben’s trunk and duffle into the undercarriage of the  _ Hogwarts Express _ , and bid their farewells beside the gleaming red finish of the second car.

“Be good, Ben.” His mother pleads as she kisses his cheek, eyes as misty as ever as she bends to scratch Kylo under his chin through the bars of the kennel. “You too, dear.”

Han, for his part, claps Ben on the back and gives a nod.

“Give ‘em hell. Write us once you know the game schedule, we’ll be there.” He nods, bends to pick up Kylo’s kennel, and gives his mother one last kiss on the cheek before stepping up and into the familiar little train car. The  _ Hogwarts Express  _ smells like autumn: old leather, stale sweets, and the familiar waft of freshly pressed robes. Ben ducks into the first empty compartment he finds and takes a second to carefully stow his broom in the overhead rack before sitting down and letting Kylo out of his kennel.

He’s staring out the window, Kylo in his lap and desperately wishing for a cup of coffee when there’s a tentative knock at the door and Ben feels his whole world come crashing down around his ears. Rey, Gryffindor’s irritatingly talented, and  _ even more  _ irritatingly beautiful Seeker is unlatching the door, broom over one shoulder and battered kennel under her arm as she ducks into the compartment.

“Mind if I join you? Everywhere else is already full.” Ben only nods, wholeheartedly alarmed by the situation, and scratches Kylo behind one downy ear as he reminds himself that  _ she is the opponent, her freckles are not cute, you’re going to hand her the most crippling defeat of Hogwarts Quidditch history  _ (it doesn’t work).

Rey has been a thorn in his side since she’d stomped onto the Quidditch pitch in their third year, untrained, wildly talented, and every inch the textbook Gryffindor. Thirteen year old Ben had stood slack jawed as she’d given him a cheeky little wave from astride her broomstick (an outdated, but still functional Firebolt 2000) and promptly handed him his ass. Later in the common room that night, Ben had seethed to anyone who would listen about  _ that infuriating girl  _ and thus had begun the second most infamous Slytherin/Gryffindor rivalry in Hogwarts History.

In their fourth year she’d been elected captain, as had Ben, and suddenly the tension between them escalated further. Shared classes were next to torture, with Rey throwing balled up pieces of parchment at his head, and Ben snidely commenting to anyone who would listen that “really, she just needed a  _ teacher _ ”.

Which was, unfortunately, far from true; as the sandy girl was the only other player who could keep up with Ben when push came to shove. They’d tied for the cup that year, Rey’s eyes bright as she’d held up her end of the chalice and grinned at Ben’s dumbstruck expression.

Fifth year, Gryffindor won the cup by one point, prompting a party on the pitch so raucous that Luke had been forced to storm down the grounds himself to shut it down. By the time the headmaster had made it through the throngs to the debaucheries epicenter, Rey and Ben were already locked in a battle of wills, bottles of butterbeer scattered around them as they arm wrestled.

“Enough!” His uncle had cried, one wave of his wand sending a blast of cool air through the stadium so powerful that it sent bottles and students alike eddying in its wake. Rey had just shot up, given him a sloppy grin, and apologized. Ben could only think of the howler he was sure to receive from his mother.

No such howler came though, just a messily scrawled reprimand from his father that concluded with the line: “watch out, that’s how it usually starts.”

Matters had really only been made worse the last game of their sixth year, when Rey had taken a bludger to the arm, sending her out of the sky and down to the pitch in a crumpled heap of scarlet robes and chestnut hair that had Ben’s heart in his throat as he’d abandoned the snitch in favor of rushing to her side. He’d carried her to the infirmary himself, heedless of Hux’s strident complaints, or the heavy weight of Phasma’s stare on his back as he exited the pitch surrounded by a gaggle of concerned Gryffindors. Madam Pomfrey had allowed him to stay after she’d set the bone, leaving the ashen faced seeker to watch his rival sleep and puzzle out just why it felt like his chest was caving in.

The first thing Rey had said to him upon waking up was a nearly silent: “You stayed” that had Ben ducking his head to hide the blush painted across high cheekbones. After that, Rey became a fixture in his life, studying beside him in the library, sharing new moves she’d seen detailed during the World Cup. Their rivalry was still very much intact, but there was something else now too, something that felt like butterbeer on frosty December mornings, or the first few seconds of flight. Ben did his best not to dwell on it (to absolutely no avail).

And now she was here, smiling at him from across the compartment with her own cat perched on the seat beside her and a dusting of freckles strong across the bridge of her nose. He hasn’t spoken to her at all over the summer, never quite plucked up the courage to pen a letter, woken up every night sweaty and blushing from dreams of her, and now that he’s faced with Rey in the flesh, Ben has no clue what to do.

“Long time no see, Solo.” She smiles, and he’s wrecked.

“Uh.” Is Ben’s eloquent response.

“Are you ready to lose the first match of the season?” Rey crosses one long ( _ long long long _ ) leg over the other and the smile on her pretty face shifts into a cocky smirk that reminds Ben entirely too much of his father.

“Fat chance.” He finally grumbles, and the laugh it prompts from Rey is enough to pull a smile to his face. The rest of the train ride passes in their usual blur of banter and Quidditch jargon, the last half hour finding them hunched over Rey’s broom spread out on the floor with her toolkit open. It’s in good repair, Ben notes, though a broom of this vintage  _ has  _ to be in order to keep up with Rey’s particular brand of flying. She’s got her wand behind one ear, and a roll of grip tape in the other as she works, lecturing Ben on the best way to keep the fletching in back waterproofed.

“I  _ can’t  _ believe you don’t waterproof your broom better.” She grumbles, and they’re so close that he can smell the pumpkin pasty she’d ordered from the trolley on her breath. Swallowing thickly, he glances at his own broom where it leans against the window and rolls his eyes.

“Firebolt updated their waterproofing formula two years ago.” He tries, and fails, not to sound smug. “It doesn’t require as frequent touching up anymore.” Rey looks up from her work to raise one eyebrow at him, and Ben’s caught wholly off guard by the sudden urge to kiss her.

“Whatever you say, Benjamin.” Is her only response.

“So.” Phasma begins as they stand in the Common Room, Head Girl badge gleaming in the shifting green hues that filter in through the lake as their party waits for the First Years. “I notice that you walked in with Rey.” Ben just crosses his arms and pretends to study the intricate facing on the wall opposite him.

“Be sure you don’t let your own personal goals get in the way of this season, Solo.” He’s used to the blonde’s clipped tones, and knows there’s no real venom there, but the jab stings a little nonetheless.

“Don’t worry about it Phasma.” She flicks a piece of imaginary dust off one shoulder. “I have no intention of letting that happen.”

They both know it’s a lie.

Rey and Ben share a Defense Against the Dark Arts period, taught (regrettably) by Ben’s grandfather, a greying Wizard and former Auror by the name of Anakin with a fading tattoo on his forearm and haunted eyes who watches his grandson with hawk like intensity.

“This term.” Anakin begins from the head of the classroom, an imposing figure in robes of black and leather that have lost none of their impact in the seven years they’ve studied under him, “we will focus on resisting the Imperius curse, execution of nonverbal spells, as well as mastery of Levicorpus and a revision to the Stunning spell.” The room fills with the sound of quill on paper, and Ben seals a glance at Rey only to find her already watching him from across the classroom. Her cheeks flush, and the two of them hurriedly glance down at their papers, an exchange that does not go unnoticed by Anakin behind his desk.

“This term will undoubtedly be the most rigorous yet for you in this class.” A rustle as Anakin steps out from behind his desk to make his way down between the rows of students. “If you’re particularly interested in succeeding academically, I recommend that you leave distractions outside.” Ben can see the dark fabric of his Grandfather’s robes out of the corner of his eye, and when he glances up to meet Anakin’s wry stare he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Including matters of the heart, and Quidditch pitch.”

Ben just barely holds back his groan.

“Well mate.” Mitaka muses as they bump shoulders in the locker room, hastily changing into their gear before practice. “You  _ were  _ making moon eyes at her.” Hux nods his agreement through the emerald underlayer he’s pulling on, ginger hair sticking out of the top. Ben’s glad Phasma isn’t here to join in on the ribbing too, well aware that she’d have a litany of jabs on the subject.

“I was  _ not  _ making moon eyes.” Ben grumbles, the defense sounding weak even to his own ears.

“Sure thing, Captain.” Mitaka grins, not bothering to look up from the armguard he’s strapping on. “Whatever you say.”

As requested, Ben makes the trek up to the owlery the last Wednesday of September to send Han the match schedule. Late September brings thick fog and a constant drizzle that sends Ben’s hair curling more aggressively than ever and blankets the school in a warm hush. Absently, as he crests the last few stairs and enters the owlery proper, Ben wonders how Rey’s waterproofing is holding up, and makes a note to ask her next time they’re in the library together. He doesn’t have to wait that long though, as she rounds the corner heading towards one sweeping window, owl on her arm just a few steps later.

“Ben!” Her smile is bright enough to blind, and he finds himself mirroring it as Rey sends her charge off with a quiet hum of thanks.

“Hey.” His hands are sweaty, and somewhere in the back of his mind Ben hopes the ink on his letter doesn’t smear too badly.

“One week till the first match.” Rey bites her lip and leans against the stonework. “Ready to lose?” He’s prepared for the light hearted jab this time and responds with a smirk.

“Not in the slightest. Are you?” She just shakes her head and blows him a kiss as she steps away from the wall.

“Nope!” Ben wishes he had something to say,  _ anything  _ to say to keep her there with him for a few more minutes, but he falls short and watches as the deceptively delicate seeker bounces down the first few steps of the open stairway back towards the rest of the school.

“Hey Ben?” Rey pauses, turning around to look up at him, mist curling around her face, “are you planning on going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” He feels a little like he’s been hit with a Stunning spell.

“Uh.” Eloquent as ever. “Yeah?”

For the first time in the four years he’s known her, Rey looks nervous.

“Would you maybe want to go with me?” Her cheeks are pink, and Ben suspects not just with the late autumn air. “Like,  _ with  _ me.”

He’s got both feet firmly on the ground, but somehow Ben feels like he’s flying.

“I’d like that a lot.” Rey looks for all the world like she’s just caught the snitch when she replies.

“Good. Eight am outside the Great Hall?” Ben nods a little too eagerly, and then she’s gone.

Saturday morning arrives in a wave of rain that sends the surface of the lake dancing, and does nothing to assuage the nerves that coil low in the pit of Ben’s stomach. He examines his reflection in the mirror opposite the dormitory door, and wishes for a second that his Mother was here to give the stamp of approval. He’s tugged on her favorite sweater of his, a dark grey knit that she’d brought him back from a business trip to Ireland for his sixteenth birthday, and done what little he could to tame the wild curls at his ears into an acceptable state. He’s never done this before, always been too busy with school, and then Quidditch, and then  _ Rey  _ to ever go on a date (and this is  _ definitely  _ a date, Rey had made that clear enough).

He’s never been much one to fear the unknown, but right now he feels like maybe a sip of  _ felix felicis  _ (or maybe just firewhiskey) is in dire order. The walk from the dungeons up to the Great Hall seems to take a year and a half, but the second he sees Rey nervously waiting outside the great oaken doors the anxiety all but melts away like late spring snow.

“Hey there.” He greets, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide the way he picks at the cuticle of his right thumb.

“Hi.” She replies breathlessly, sending a thrill of male pride ringing through Ben’s ears.

“Shall we?” He offers one arm in a mockery of the way he’d watched his father do for Leia. Rey’s hands are small and warm when they land atop the rough wool of his sweater, and Ben thinks he understands why Han always made the gesture.

“Yes please.”

Hogsmeade in the rain is second only to Hogsmeade in the snow. The little town takes on a whole new kind of charm with the steady drum of rain on it’s roofs; when Ben and Rey curl into the old leather couch that sits in front of the fire at the Three Broomsticks, it’s the best thing since flying.

“I’m glad you agreed to come.” Rey smiles into her butterbeer, cheeks pink and hair falling out of its braid.

“I am too.” Unbidden, one large hand darts out to tuck a stray lock behind her ear as Ben agrees. “Really glad.”

The pub bustles around them, filled with soggy students and older patrons alike as the rain picks up even more against the old shingles, and in a burst of bravery (probably helped along by the butterbeer) Ben leans down to kiss her.

They spend the rest of the day tucked into the ancient leather, Rey’s head on his shoulder and alternating between discussing Quidditch (though they’re both careful not to let any strategies to be used in the upcoming season slip), School, and stealing careful kisses when they’re sure no one else is looking. It is, Ben thinks as he casts a charm to keep them dry while they run to catch the last carriage back to the school, easily the best trip to Hogsmeade if not the best  _ day  _ he’s ever had in his entire life.

That is, until the first Quidditch game of the season, when his team barrels onto the field to equal parts cheers and boos, and Rey blows him a kiss from across the pitch with fire in her eyes. He doesn’t know what Gryffindor did in terms of training over the off season, but it clearly payed off. They’re flying in tighter formations than ever before, and while it’s always been neck and neck between the two teams, that margin is slimmer than ever before. Poe scores the first two goals, whooping with wild abandon from atop his broom as he works the crowd with a series of complicated dives that end only when Phasma aims a bludger his way with a smirk. Hux and Mitaka make up that deficit with two very well executed plays, the precision Slytherin is so well known for under his lead evident in every move.

One hour into the game they’re still tied, the crowd beneath them a living entity all its own as Ben circles the pitch, eyes trained for any golden flash of movement. Rey mirrors him, hands loose around the nose of her broomstick, and braid disintegrating as the game draws on. They’ve already engaged in three desperate bids for the snitch, each ending in nothing as it darts away, and Ben’s more impressed than ever with Rey’s flying. Her broom’s waterproofing is  _ obviously  _ holding up fine, as a drizzle starts and she challenges him in a breakneck nose dive down towards the green, arm outstretched for the little gold ball.

She’s on a perfect trajectory to catch it, and Ben knows it even as he urges his broom to accelerate even more rapidly, heedless of the dwindling space between them and the field. For a breathless second, he thinks the game is lost, but then a bludger comes careening out of left field, and Rey has to jerk out of her dive to avoid it. Ben glances up to see who’d hit it, only to be met with a lazy salute from Bala Tik, and then they’re off again.

In the end, Slytherin scores two more goals and secures a lead that has Ben preening even as he and Rey continue to dance around the pitch, but it’s her who closes her fingers over the decisive ball with a snarl, and a sea of scarlet clad fans that flood the pitch. Ben presses her against the wall outside the locker rooms afterwards, lips hot as they slant against hers.

“Excellent flying today.” He rumbles when they pull apart to breathe, proud of her performance even if it had cost his team a win. Rey just grins wildly and pulls him back down, gloved fingers fisting in his hair and pulling a growl from his throat.

Slytherin wins against Ravenclaw, and then Hufflepuff too, and the next time they come up against Gryffindor, Ben catches the snitch ten minutes into the game and secures their spot against them in the finals. He and Rey assess the plays as they lay together on the pitch later that night, pillowed against the late spring snow and still a little breathless (though from the game, or how she’d gasped his name just a few moments earlier Ben isn’t sure).

“It’s going to be a tight game.” She muses, idly playing with the fingers of Ben’s dominant hand.

“You know that’s how I like it.” The Slytherin team Captain smirks, earning a laugh and a smack against his chest. Han had pulled him aside after the game to mention how much he liked the cut of “that Gryffindor Seeker’s” jib, and the affirmation still has Ben’s fingertips warmly buzzing even more than the win. For the first time in his life, he’s truly happy. Nearly done with school, about to take his team to victory in the Quidditch Cup, and (he wonders as Rey presses a sleepy, sated kiss to his bicep) in love with the most headstrong muggle born to ever fly this pitch.

In the end, Ben abandons the goals he’d initially set out to accomplish over the course of his seventh year and instead pens two new ones that send Leia tittering when she reads them:

  1.     Play for England in the World Cup (Rey’s already been extended an offer by the Irish team).
  2.     Bring her home for the summer.



  
  



End file.
